


Five: Witching Hour

by cadkitten



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Anal Sex, Bonding, Desperation, Dick gives up the cape, Dick is a magic user, Dick isn't Nightwing anymore, Emotional Sex, M/M, Slade is an incubus, Summoning Circles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 00:29:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12569620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadkitten/pseuds/cadkitten
Summary: For five blessed minutes, he finds peace of his own, finds somewhere that isn't torment or torture or trying to resolve someone else's pain. For five minutes, helives.





	Five: Witching Hour

**Author's Note:**

> for #SladeRobinWeek - Day 7: Witching Hour  
> Witching hour is known as 3 am, a time when black magic is supposed to be used the very most, and as a time of day where the barrier between the world of the living and the dead is lifted, however so briefly.  
> Beta: kate1zena  
> Song[s]: "If I Be Wrong" by Wolf Larsen

Energy swirls around him, the tug and pull in his gut telling him that he knows exactly what time it is, that he knows what _day_ it is. 

For five years it has been a fight between the gripping sensation in his gut and the logical side of his brain that tells him he's playing a very dangerous sort of game. 

_Every year his logical voice loses._

This year is no different. He's felt the incessant heaviness low in his belly starting weeks ago, feels it to the point it wakes him up at night, that it keeps him desperately clutching at his covers, cold sweat soaking his sheets as he fights against it. 

The truth is, he lost this battle five days ago. Five whole days where he doesn't have the energy to fight it, doesn't have the _will_ to tell himself that _this_ is a terrible idea, just as it always is. 

Five days ago, he bought the first of the necessary items to cast his spell: the jar of guaranteed authentic graveyard dirt. He already owns the necessary candles, the blue chalk dust, even the very specific incense. Of _course_ he still has that, tucked away in the back corner of his dresser, his shame hidden from the world. This one thing he _covets_ when he knows he should not.

Every night since then he's sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the dirt, _given in_ to what he knows he should not, his hand around his cock, his lip between his teeth, biting down until his lip splits in the very same place it always does. He cums to the taste of copper on his tongue, to the rhythmic repetition of the words to the spell he has yet to cast flowing through his mind.

When he lays down to sleep at night, he frets until dawn, rolls restlessly in his bed and does not sleep until the sun peeks through his curtains, spills over his bedspread, and only then does his body give out over his mind, letting him fall into exhaustion's arms for a bare few hours.

Four days ago, he opened the book that contains the spell, just to make sure he understands the truth of it, to make sure he's not recalling it incorrectly, to ensure there will not be a mistake.

Three days ago, he _changed his mind_ , told himself he would _not_ do this. He spent the day in the corner of his room, his arms tight around himself, his lips pressed to a thin line as he imagined a year _without_ strong arms around him, a year without the scent that is his desperate need.

It took him most of the day to convince himself that this wasn't a huge mistake and – like always – he found himself in front of that jar, hand around his cock and fingers filling his ass in some frantic bid to ensure he hadn't caused _doubt_ in the object of his desire's mind with his fear.

He's been told again and again that what he wants is wrong, that he's treading terrible waters. He's been reminded that magic isn't for _this_. His mind tells him he's been given this gift and that while he always uses it for good, to help others, to better the _world_ , he shouldn't be able to justify using it _for himself_. Not like this. Not in such a direct sort of manner and certainly not for this _being_ he invites into his world one day each year.

Two days ago, he told himself that he deserves something once in a while. That even the strongest men _fail_ once in a while.

Yesterday, he bought the rosewater paper and crushed the sandalwood incense to smudge across the paper. He couldn't look the girl in the shop in the eye and he suspects _she knows_ why it is that once each year the most prominent magic user of their city cannot meet her eyes.

Tonight, he stands on the roof overlooking the park, watches the clock tower across the way, and he waits to see if he can _resist_ the pull.

He's there for hours, parsing out little pieces of his magic to keep the peace on the ground beneath him, in the apartments to his left, even once to a pair of pigeons being hassled somewhere behind him. He doles out what he always has – his unique touch to the city around him. 

It's been _years_ since he stumbled into these powers, since his world changed ever so drastically. He can still remember the look in Bruce's eyes the first time he showed him what he could _really_ do. He remembers the disdain... the way his lips pursed as he held back the words Dick would hear without Bruce ever having to say them. 

Just like it was yesterday, he remembers walking away that night. Remembers the way it felt to step out of his uniform for the last time that night and the way it felt the following morning to show up _as himself_ on Zatana's doorstep, showing her without words what he could do, begging with only his desperation to be _trained_.

Years had pushed him forward, passed him over the doorsteps of virtually every magic user the hero community had ever known. He remembers the unexpected kindness of Constantine, the curt clipped answers from Dr. Fate, even the quiet sigh from Klarion when he'd come to Dick instead of the other way around. The _chaotic_ nature of the latter had left him in very powerful hands, had given him so much more than anyone else had ever dared to show him, and it was there that he'd learned to do what he did now.

Some part of his mind had found the irony in that, in having someone who had once tried to kill him do their very best to _help_ ; buried deep inside the meaning of such a thing, he found the realization that perhaps many things were not as they seemed to the naked eye. 

His mind refocuses on the present, on the gasp somewhere to his right, _miles_ away, and he reaches out to it through the night, draws on the string of it until he can twine his fingers around it and then _tugs_ , watching the world open up before him, showing him the scene: a teenage boy with a stranger's hand covering his mouth, a wild look in his eyes, a gun to his temple wielded by shaky hands, and a half dozen more pointed at the pair of them.

Dick feels it out, passes his hand through the scene as quickly as he can, feels the anger from the opposing side, the desperation of the man holding the gun to the teen's temple, feels the _terror_ without having to touch it coming from the boy in waves. He closes his eyes and he lets this piece of himself detach, lets it travel the distance until he's wrapped around the teenager, his touch providing comfort, calming his heart rate, showing him the way out. His voice caresses the mind of the one holding the boy, shows him the words he needs to speak to those confronting them to give them both the time to leave, and then he jerks the string attached to those facing off against them, freezes them in time just long enough to allow the words, the boy's escape, then releases them and coats the teenager and his would-be murderer in darkness, forcing their paths separate from one another, untwisting their strings with a delicate touch.

He releases the scene and comes back to himself, has to kneel to take his breath back into his body, has to take the needed minute to calm the shaking in his hands, in his thighs, before he can stand back up and turn away from the city for the night. 

It is as it has been for five years: the call too great, the longing in his gut too desperate, and he knows what he will do tonight.

He stumbles into his home with five minutes to spare, leaves a trail of clothing from his door to his bedroom, locks every door between the outside and his room tucked so safely in the most protected corner of the house. 

There isn't hesitation as he scatters the chalk, as he places and lights the candles, his voice giving _life_ to the incantation he's long since memorized. He lights the incense and gives himself pause, takes the remaining two minutes to _prepare_ himself for this. 

Two fingers and then three, an excited thrum of his blood through his veins, a hitch in his breath that has only been there the past _five_ days. He shudders as he takes the graveyard dirt from the dresser, as he carefully empties it onto his floor in all the proper designs, the final words of his spell slipping past his lips without any remorse. 

_This is for him. One thing for him in the midst of how often he gives himself to everyone out there._

Warmth fills the room and he sighs in relief, closing his eyes and _waiting_ on it to envelop him. At first it is but a ghost of a touch, the faintest of feelings that he's been herded toward the bed. By the time he crawls up on it, spread himself out in a way he hopes is alluring, he can see the smallest outline of what he's summoned. His eyes track over it, follow the lines and _create_ , helping to build them through his own life energy. He watches them solidify over him, sees the amused curve of their lips, the fire burning in their eyes, and he waits for the rumble of their voice.

When it comes, he knows the smile on his lips is blinding, knows he looks nearly drugged out for how deliriously happy this makes him, and he listens until _his treasure_ is done.

"I've been _waiting_."

There's something in those words, buried deep under them that Dick wants to latch onto forever. Sure, he understands that he's summoned an _incubus_ , that they _live_ off of what he's offering to him. All the same, he's not certain that he _cares_ what it is that he's offering. He gets that it's not just his sex that they want, not just his body to use as a plaything for the night, but it's that other part that has always drawn him in, that leaves him desperate for these yearly encounters, leaves him _dry_ the rest of the year without it. 

The first touch pulls his breath from his lungs, the second yanking him flush against his incubus and he arches, feels them solidify just the last amount as he _gives_ the life force necessary to make it happen. His fingertips feel cold and his mind feels... _distant_.

Their lips touch his, the touch of a ghost until _it's not_ and then it's powerful, _providing_ , and he takes in return. His breath returns, the warmth tingles out to his fingertips, and he rubs himself against the hard lines of the body above him, opens his eyes despite the kiss and watches the transformation he knows he shouldn't even be able to see. 

Strong features evening out into _age_ , white hair cascading around broad shoulders, the press of a beard against his chin and when he reaches up, the scratch of stubble against his palms. He studies the eye patch over one eye, gasps softly as the other opens to pierce right into his very soul, _steals_ from him until his chest feels tight, until his own hands shift, finding their string and slowly pulling. The feeling eases and he _moans_ into the kiss, closes his eyes and rolls his hips again, breathes the name he's only been given _once_ in all this time against rough lips, between forceful bites at his broken lower lip.

" _Slade_."

Copper spreads in his mouth as it's invaded by the incubus' tongue and he feels _speared_ , as though he's remembering wounds of old – the sting of a blade pushing in past skin and tissue and sinew. He recalls the way the wound is horrible until _it isn't_ , until fighting through it is a better option than dealing with it. His pulse skitters as he finds that here within the constant give and take of what they're doing. 

Penetration is a _blessing_ , leaves his thighs trembling and his back arching. It steals his _mind_ for but a moment, the incubus releasing it _willingly_ and he groans into their kiss, pushing his magic into the air around them, _giving_ as much as he's getting. 

He hears the relieved little sigh against his lips, feels the passion in the way they move over him, in the way they aren't _rough_ like they were the first time. 

They've both learned since then. 

He finds leave in the way his mind floats, in the way his breathing shallows and the way his body feels steeped in _relief_. 

For five blessed minutes, he finds peace of his own, finds somewhere that isn't torment or torture or trying to resolve someone else's pain. For five minutes, he _lives _.__

__When it all comes undone, when he takes his first shuddering breath on the edge of his orgasm, he _laments_. There is _pain_ here – a breadth of which he can never quite fathom until it hits him full in the face. There is _sacrifice_ dancing at the edges of his vision and there is _torture_ in his heart as he prepares to let go for the fifth time._ _

__Tears blur his vision, never spilling but _existing_ and a biting sort of _hurt_ that he likens to the look on Bruce's face that last night settling over his soul. He'll lose the most important part of his life with this action, will release him back to wherever it is he goes for the rest of the year, and he wants to scream, wants to _beg_ until he stays, but the words lodge in his throat just as they always have and he _fights_ against the knot that stays them._ _

__For an instant his breath is gone, he can feel his skin _burning_ , feels like his soul is crawling out of his mouth to nestle within _Slade_ and he bucks once... twice... and then he's falling and – _oh_ how it feels like the falling he _used_ to do._ _

__He can feel the warmth inside him that tells him his energy has been returned, that tells him once again he's earned the reward of this being in that he's not had anything truly stolen from him, that they have _exchanged_ what they need in the cover of darkness that is his room._ _

__His eyes open and he watches the ceiling, sees the flicker of the candles grow dim, _knows_ they are extinguishing one by one, knows he has only the slow count of five to tell his truth to the darkness._ _

__He takes a trembling breath and he feels the tears fall hot down his cheeks, feels the way they track back into his hairline and he hears his voice for the first time in all these years admit the _truth_ of his world._ _

__"I need you more than you need me."_ _

__He finishes the count of five in his mind and yet one light remains, playing over the flicker of the curtains in the corner of his room, licking at the walls with its pale yellow flame._ _

__There's a rustle, the sense of being touched, of being _caressed_ and his breath hitches at the beauty of it, and then the light is gone, extinguished and plunging him into darkness that rivals his mind. _ _

__It takes him hours to dredge himself from the bed, to clean the mess he's made of the floor of his bedroom, to vacuum up every bit of the graveyard dirt and properly dispose of it._ _

__He hides the incense at the back of his drawer once more and he feels heavy in his heart as he steps into the bathroom to rid himself of the evidence of his sins._ _

__The bare light flickers above him and the mirror beside the tub gives him pause._ _

__His hand ghosts over his hip, over the spread of ink that had not been there before but now resides stark in comparison to his skin. The words, a tongue he couldn't give voice to if he wanted to, the skin warm to his touch against them, and he _knows_._ _

__This is his reply. This is his _trust_. _ _

__This is his path to having Slade with him whenever he needs him. No spells, no questions, no _sin_ to the outside world: just him and his blessing in disguise. _ _

___This is his life_._ _


End file.
